This Looks Like One Of Those Unwelcome

On Glancing Over My Notes Of The Seventy Odd Cases In Which I Have During The Last Eight Years Studied The Methods Of My Friend Sherlock Holmes, I Find Many Tragic, Some Comic, A Large Number Merely Strange, But None Commonplace; For, Working As He Did Rather For The Love Of His Art Than For The Acquirement Of Wealth, He Refused To Associate Himself With Any Investigation Which Did Not Tend Towards The Unusual, And Even The Fantastic.

I Should Dearly Love That The World Should Be Ever So Little Better For My Presence. Even On This Small Stage We Have Our Two Sides, And Something Might Be Done By Throwing All One's Weight On The Scale Of Breadth, Tolerance, Charity, Temperance, Peace, And Kindliness To Man And Beast. We Can't All Strike Very Big Blows, And Even The Little Ones Count For Something.

I Have Frequently Gained My First Real Insight Into The Character Of Parents By Studying Their Children.

So It Was, My Dear Watson, That At Two O'clock Today I Found Myself In My Old Armchair In My Own Old Room, And Only Wishing That I Could Have Seen My Old Friend Watson In The Other Chair Which He Has So Often Adorned. - Sherlock Holmes.

Man, Or At Least Criminal Man, Has Lost All Enterprise And Originality. As To My Own Little Practice, It Seems To Be Degenerating Into An Agency For Recovering Lost Lead Pencils And Giving Advice To Young Ladies From Boarding-schools.